


White Stars

by Spoon888



Series: Mission And Companion Pieces [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: An Attempt At Arts And Crafts, Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Implied Mech Preg, M/M, Starscream Can Be A Good Parent, Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 01:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18110537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoon888/pseuds/Spoon888
Summary: Mission never had much, but he had Starscream.





	White Stars

One of Mission's earliest memories was Starscream, filing down cut out sheet-metal into smoother shapes.

He'd been small, only just old enough to hold his own cube, and still too clumsy to drink from it without a straw. Starscream had sat him in his lap, tucked him between his waist and arm, bent over with a frown of concentration as he worked, diligently filing away at the flat piece of metal, wonkily cut into the shape of a star.

He remembered reaching out curiously for it when it was done; a star with rounded edges so he wouldn't scratch himself on it's pointed tip. He'd known it was for him. But Starscream had brushed him away, picking up another shape and beginning work on that instead. A jet this time.

He had watched patiently, as Starscream filed down twelve shapes. Watched him carve intricate details into them. Watched him paint them. Six stars, all white. And six jets, three blue, and three purple.

He had watched Starscream attach them to wires and let them dangle from them in a cascade like it was a fine chandelier. Watched him hang it above his berth and make it turn, around and around, stars and jets, twinkling in the light. 

Mission had lost it, some time ago now. They'd had to make many quick escapes in their time on the run, and almost always they'd only had the time to take the barest essentials. Fuel and money, nothing else was worth their lives, certainly not a handmade sparkling's toy.

Mission couldn't even remember where he'd left it. On the freighter? Or before that even? He couldn't remember all the places they'd lived. At one point one dark basement merged into the next. 

 

"You should make something for Thrax."

Starscream hastily scribbled a note as he held up a test tube to the light. "What, a weapon? We've been over this, he's too small-"

"No, something to help him recharge. He keeps me up, babbling." Mission folded his arms grumpily.

Starscream considered him suspiciously, "I don't hear anything."

"Sire says nothing less than a cosmic storm has been able to wake you since you started making that new sparkling." Mission sniffed.

Starscream's gaze darkened. He lowered his test tube. "Did he now..."

"Just make something to entertain Thrax." Mission huffed, stamping his way to the exit, "I'm sick of having to shake that rattle at him until he falls back to recharge..."

Starscream didn't give any indication that he'd taken heed of his complaint, and all that seemed to come of their conversation was Sire having to spend the night sleeping on his throne. Mission wondered if Starscream simply didn't have the time to sit around all day cutting and filing and carving and painting a stupid little thing for Thrax. Between being a Decepticon again, and whatever it was that entailed making this new sibling he was too have, his creator was just too busy.

Mission only wished he'd had the time to grab what Starcream had made him, then maybe he could have passed it down.

That night he went to his berth and stared across the room at Thrax, laying in his back, illuminated by the soft lighting Starscream always left on for them, ' _just in case_ '. Thrax was chewing on his sheets, tugging on them, optics staring up at the blank, boring ceiling.

Mission didn't even know why he was feeling sorry for him. Thrax had everything a sparkling could ask for. A home, a berth, a _sire_. What did it matter if he didn't have a stupid thing to look at when he went to recharge?

The door opened, and Mission sat up. Thrax let the sheets fall from his mouth when Starscream walked into view, cooing in interest. In Starscream's hand clattered dangling shapes cut out of sheet-metal. Wordlessly, he reached up to attach them to the ceiling above Thrax's berth. Stubby arms lifted, hands grasping for the shapes just out of reach.

Starscream nudged the halo of metal the wires had been attached to, and the shapes began to spin. Thrax's optics grew wide with amazement.

Mission could see the shapes more clearly as they twisted and caught the light. White stars. Blue and purple jets. And a new shape, one he'd never had. A silver gun, twisting in the middle of it all.

 


End file.
